Thank you Icarus Malfoy, God, PA, Liz, SweetDeath13, Lyowyn, Two-Bit Wannabe, Dortha, GoldenSong, Demus, Lowri Brandybuck, Inkie Pinkie et Les Lapins Mauvais.
Chapter Eight- Through The Heat Haze
What follows is a period of calm; a time of long, hazy days of nothing but stillness and the liquid gold of the sunlight melting into the sea. No wind stirs the sails and the Dauntless makes scarcely a knot as she crawls through the water.
A painted ship, upon a painted ocean.
I pace the quarterdeck. Up, down. Up, down. Up-
"The wind will come soon, sir. It has to." That's Gillette at my elbow, a frown on his face as he senses my frustration. He reminds me of the cat I have at home; the cat that crawls onto my page if I'm trying to read or purrs loudly whenever I'm in need of a moment's peace.
I sigh. "Do you read poetry, Mr Gillette?" I ask.
"Me, sir? Rarely, sir."
"Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean."
I don't look at Gillette as I recite; I stare past him to the horizon where sky blends flawlessly into sea.
The horizon where Jack is.
"That's the Rime Of The Ancient Mariner, sir!" Gillette is proud, practically beaming. I try to smile at him but I fear there's no warmth to it.
I turn back towards the horizon. I can see Jack in my mind's eye, even now pacing the deck of the Pearl or the boards of his cabin. Possibly he's perched on the figurehead, a leg dangling over either side and his bare feet pointing downwards, bathed in glistening droplets of spray. Perhaps he's swimming with dolphins; his lithe body coiling through the water… Ridiculous.
"Is everything alright, sir?"
I shake my head. Back to the real world, James. "I'm fine, Mr Gillette. Just a little hot, that's all."
"Any orders, sir?"
I smile, a little wistfully. "Yes. All hands that can swim are free to do so."
"Aye, aye, sir!"
Jack swimming with dolphins. Sounds like heaven.
I'm not really sure what motivates me – heat stroke, perhaps, or else the heat generated with every thought of Jack – to step towards the ship's side.
Madness.
I remove my uniform jacket, then my hat and wig. My stockings and breeches pool around my feet. I discard my necktie and shoes and step onto the searing timber. I take a sharp intake of breath and then cross the three strides to the ship's side. I hoist myself into the rigging and lean out over the glistening sea. The sun is hot on my back.
For a moment I'm merely tempted.
Then I jump.
I hear laughter and the patter of feet as men rush to the ship's side, eager to catch a glimpse of their boring, stiff-upper-lip, fun-is-forbidden Commodore frolicking naked in the sea.
"Whatever possessed you?" asks Governor Swann, as we finish a near-silent dinner.
"Heat stroke, I believe." I allow myself a smile. "I feel much better now." Lies, all lies…
"Oh, well, that is good," says the Governor weakly. He pushes his plate away from him and sets down his cutlery with a tremulous clatter. His hands are still shaking, poor man. "This heat and endless calm is trying my patience…" He gulps down some wine. "We will catch Sparrow, won't we?"
Once again I find myself lying through my teeth. "I have a plan," I say.
Hmm... I wonder if I could have Jack Sparrow as my 'cabin boy'- ostensibly as a form of punishment, of course.
"A plan? Oh good, good." Swann gives a faint smile. "I shan't inquire… I am not sure that I have the stomach for fighting pirates."
Neither do I, my dear Governor.
Not fighting them, anyway.
I scrape my chair back from the table and rise. "I bid you goodnight, Governor."
He offers me his big ivory-white hand and I enclose it in both of my own. It quivers and the Governor sighs. He's clearly shaken.
"Goodnight, Commodore Norrington," he says.
I leave the room softly and turn around, giving him a gentle smile through the ever-closing gap between door and doorframe.
With this blasted calm it is sunset the next day before we reach Port Royal. A bloody sunset too, with crimson sky bleeding into black ocean.
I leave Gillette in charge of the ship and escort Governor Swann back to his house. Elizabeth is there to meet us, red-eyed and lovely. "I thought you dead!" she cries, embracing her father and me and then her father again. She invites me in for supper but I refuse. I do not think I could stand their happiness.
Instead I walk alone to my own house, which is grey and square and cold as the night that has now fallen.
Inside, the house is dark and empty. Lovely, I think, as I grope around for a candle. I eventually find a candle but there's nothing to light it with. A tinder box. I need a tinder box!
I manage to find the staircase – how I don't know – and by clinging onto the banisters I find myself on the third floor. I turn left, creeping along the corridor. I flinch as I step onto a creaky floorboard before I remind myself that there's no one at home.
No one but me.
Alone.
I collide with something in the darkness. There's a hard hollow thud as something heavy hits the floor, missing my toe by inches. It must have been the stature of Venus, cast in bronze. Monstrosity. I hope it's broken.
"Hello, Commodore. Old Jack here's been expecting you."
It's a disembodied voice in the darkness. It's cockney and familiar. I yearn for it and find myself smiling, hardly daring to believe.
"Jack?" I ask, my voice a half-croak.
There's no reply.
I sigh and my shoulders slump. I manage to discover my bedroom and a cold blast hits me as I enter.
I find the fireplace and scrabble on the hearth for the tinder box.
"What in the seven hells do ya think you're doing?" It's that voice again- that wonderful voice...
"Jack, is that you?" I ask.
"Why wouldn't it be?"
"I'm dreaming." The obvious answer.
"No you're not."
"How did you get into my house?"
"I'm a pirate, James! I could break into heaven itself."
From behind me comes the metallic sound of a flint as it strikes and then a moment later the dark world is cast into an orange hazy glow.
I turn around.
"Hello, Commodore," says Jack Sparrow, lying face down on my bed, with the lower half of his body wrapped in my white silk bed sheets. I watch him as, leaning over the edge of the bed, he sets an oil lamp on the floor. My eyes drink him in, roaming over his body from the bare chest to his - my God, what an immodest fabric silk is - delectable arse.
I swallow. "Jack."
"Baby," Sparrow says. It sounds odd and yet quite endearing. "It's bloody freezing in here."
"I'll light the fire," I suggest. My voice is still a little croaky.
Sparrow shakes his head. "Bad idea," he says. "In harsh climates there is only one thing to do."
"What?"
"Remove all clothing and… huddle." God, there it is. Huddle. Two syllables with infinite possibilities. Jack climbs off the bed, as naked as the day he was born. He sidles up to me and wraps an arm around my waist. The other hand reaches up to my head and removes my wig, and then slowly unwinds the ribbons that tie my hair back; easing and unravelling strands asit works. Soon my hair hangs loose. "That damned wig has to go, James. Look at you now." Jack thrusts me in front of a looking-glass mounted on the wall. "You're so young."
My image stares at me, dark-eyed, with soft brown curls reaching past my shoulders.
"You'd make a fine pirate," Jack laughs.
"That's good…" I say, taking the powdered wig off Sparrow. I place it on his own head; the effect is ridiculous. "…Because you'd make a bloody awful naval officer…"
He laughs again. And with his eyes gleaming, and the faint tang of rum on his breath, he kisses me properly.
And this time there will be no disturbances.
Tbc…